A hand printed program for "A Christmas Carol"

A hand-printed flyer for “A Christmas Carol” It was cold in the church. The ceiling was tall and drafty. The setting though, was very picturesque — classic small town Midwest. 19th century white wood exterior with bell tower and stained-glass windows, surrounded by old oak and maple trees.

Snow had fallen that early morning, so the grounds were coated with a sprinkling of sugary powder, which miraculously stacked neatly up on the branches and gave the whole scene a Currier & Ives sentimentality. Just shake the snow globe and you would get the picture.

The Church Mouse Players. That’s what they were calling themselves this year. They were in between permanent theatres, so they became an itinerant troupe of actors searching for a home. The old classic, A Christmas Carol had been the holiday standard for many years, and this season’s production promised to be one of the best. The cast was stellar, each role custom fit, and most of his family was in the show, which was an added bonus.

At 11 years of age, he had finally graduated to the roles of Young Ebeneezer and The Butcher Boy. No more squeezing into the ratty Tiny Tim costume and having to lug that awful, smelly crutch around. His baby brother was now relegated to the part of the sickly cripple. He, on the other hand, actually had several lines, and could walk on his own two legs!

The December run of the show had been very well attended and the Christmas Eve matinee was shaping up to be a full house. It was the last show of the year, so excitement was building to fever pitch.

Most of the cast had spent the morning singing carols in the village, strolling down Main Street from shop to shop. He imagined himself transported back to Victorian England, dressed as he was in breeches, scarf, top hat and waistcoat. He had even begun to speak wif ’ a Cockney accent, so pervasive was the fantasy.

An atmosphere of joyousness and goodwill seemed to have taken over the small town as well. Young children laughing and jumping with barely contained excitement darted between their shopping parents’ legs, snatching at each other’s hats and wagging candy canes at their comrades.

The measured solemnity of the singing of traditional carols belied a growing, electrical tension rising in his preteen heart. He saw his young peers running to and fro, caught up in the spirit of the holidays, while he stood distinct, surrounded by adult and child performers. The effect this separation had on him was one of specialness, a sense of entitled maturity. It was as if he belonged to a select group of individuals whose rare abilities set them somehow apart. They existed on a rarefied plane, a few feet above the audience, even when entertaining at street level.

He didn’t feel the cold, either, although he could see his breath on the air, enwrapped as he was in a cluster of human warmth. These were his family, his tribe, and they provided his purpose as well as his shelter.

1

After they had gotten through the songbook, they handed out flyers to passersby. He had personally hand stamped several hundred of them with green holly leaves and red berries the days before. The little ones literally quivered with anticipation as the magic hour grew closer. The sun had reached its zenith of the day and, as it lowered rosy and westward, the Winter’s day grew slightly chill.

Back at the church, they broke open the cooler with his family’s lunch in it: Thermos bottle of soup (with oyster crackers, of course) and bologna & cheese sandwiches. Someone had made hot chocolate, which helped allay the chill of the place. Clean-up and then an hour of free time before Half Hour was called.

Too cold to play outside, so he and his brother decided to explore the church. The tech crew was running light and sound cues, so no one noticed as they ducked behind the blackout curtains, out the small door and up the rickety stairs at the back of the alter.

It was a very narrow staircase, multiple switchbacks with landings every ten steps or so. It didn’t look like it had been used much in the past 50 years, the wood was bare and splintery in many places, and there was a noticeable sway as they made their way heavenward.

“We better go back down,” his little brother said. “It may be half hour.”

“Nah. We got plenty of time.” he assured his younger sibling, then whispered “It Takes A Thief.” The younger recognized this reference to their favorite TV show and it mitigated his fear a little bit.

“So, where does this actually go?” The 8-year-old asked nonchalantly.

“All the way to the top, I hope.” he answered. They started up again.

“Kinda dark.” The smaller one observed. “Ow! Got a sliver.” He flicked his hand rapidly, stopped and sucked his finger.

“Don’t worry.” He led them upward. “I brought this.” He clicked the metal flashlight on and the tip glowed plastic red. “In England, they call these a torch.”

“Cool.” His brother scooted closer. They moved in unison up the remaining flights in silence. The space seemed to grow narrower as they rose.

After what seemed an hour, they came to the topmost landing. Swinging the flashlight to and fro, the tiny spot illuminated a small rectangle of warped floorboards leading to a single, miniature-sized door. As he stepped out onto the space, the boards creaked and he could feel the wood beneath him give just slightly.

He stepped back instinctively, which alarmed his brother.

“Let’s go back, they’re probably looking for us.” he said.

“Nah, we’re fine. It’s just a little creaky.” He demonstrated by working his foot against the boards. He shone the light around and downward. “Shit, look how high up we are!”

“Cut it out!” his brother cried, “or I’m going back down.”

“Go ahead.” he said and shut the light.

“Hey!” his brother gripped his arm.

“Just messin’ around, Beav.” he said. “Let’s try this door.” He crept carefully across the landing and jiggled the knob. His brother joined him rather than be left behind.

“Push!” the young one whispered.

“Don’t want to make too much noise. Don’t want to get caught.” He answered and put some weight on

2

it. The door had obviously not been used for some time and was sticking as he swung into it.

“Okay. On three. One. Two. Three!” They pushed together and the door sprung open, making a loud crack and throwing a cloud of dust billowing into the room. They coughed and covered their mouths, but then tentatively duckwalked in.

The room was wide and low, sitting directly beneath the roof of the church. The bell tower extended upward at the far end, bleeding slats of Winter blue light into the space. A calm filtering of powdery snow came gently through the openings in the tower and down to the circle of brightness below.

For that moment, it felt like they had discovered an alternate, magical universe.

“Whoa! Cool!” they both thought, and slowly tiptoed across the floor, creating footprints in the decades-old dust. As they neared the pool of light, the dust made way for an island of delicate, melting snow.

A thick rope hung directly in the center of this island.

“This is the bell tower!” the older brother suddenly realized. He moved toward the rope like one hypnotized, fully intending to ring the bell, the likelihood of discovery be damned. His brother stuck to him like a baby possum.

“This is so cool. Just like The Hunchback of Notre Dame” he said as they crabwalked forward.

They had nearly made it to the center of the room when a strange skittering sound in the corner caught their attention.

They froze in place. Slowly, he raked the beam of the flashlight along the periphery of the darkness.

Another movement drew their ears and then eyes to the opposite side of the room. The flashlight followed their line of vision.

There, in the corner where the roof beams hit the floor, was the source of the noise: A compact, furry creature with large ears and round little eyes that seemed to glow blood red in the light of the torch.

As the beam focused on the animal, it appeared to grow in size. Just a trick of the light maybe, but the shadow cast behind it was definitely expanding as the boys looked on in silent amazement.

The creature’s eyes opened wider and its body puffed up into a huge brown fright wig as one dark and leathery wing unfolded from its side.

It let out a single, piercing squeak.

The boys turned and bolted in terror. They were out the door and down the rickety stairs in seconds flat, one flight following another in rapid succession.

At the bottom, they dove off the final step and into the welcoming folds of the blackout curtains at the back wall.

They exchanged wide-eyed looks in the dim backstage light. Simultaneously, the two of them burst out in nervous laughter.

“Shit! That was a vampire bat!” he said to his sibling.

“Yeah, definitely!” his brother agreed as they high-fived and slapped hands in congratulations.

They knew it would make a great story as they cheerfully skipped down to the rectory/dressing room to get made up. They were both secretly happy to be back among the living.

The discovery of the vampire bat by the youngest Church Mouse Players made them the heroes of the dressing room. The whole cast was abuzz with the details of the adventure by the time the curtain rose, and 3

every so often at quiet moments backstage during the performance someone would let out a tiny squeak, which would get them all giggling again.

The show itself went off perfectly, everyone hitting their marks, sound and light cues running smooth as velvet. By the time Scrooge held Tiny Tim aloft for his final “God bless us everyone!” the audience was on its feet. 3 curtain calls and hugs all around.

He would always remember the smell of pancake make-up, cold cream and spirit gum, as the players jockeyed for position at the small mirrors to remove their make-up and return to street clothes for the festivities ahead. Many Happy Holidays and Merry Christmases were exchanged as well as exciting kisses from the ladies and girls in the cast.

“Let’s hurry it up, troupe,” their father said. “We gotta pick up a tree and get home to your mother. She’s holding dinner for us.”

They loaded up the station wagon and crowded into the ancient vehicle as Dad attempted to start the car. The interior was cold as a fridge (the heater never worked properly), but they bundled in blankets and winter coats, filling every available space. Dad hunched behind the wheel in his Russian Astrakhan hat, beseeching the automobile gods.

“Come on, baby, you can do it.” he encouraged the vehicle, as he pumped the gas pedal and cranked the ignition. The motor groaned with the arctic cold as a couple of attempts were made.

“Dammit,” he whispered, “Don’t do this to me, you bastard.”

A silent prayer went around the car as another several futile passes were made. Whether by group will or a Christmas miracle, the starter finally turned over and goosed the engine into life. A collective affirmative sigh went through the passengers.

Finally underway, the car chugged along the mostly empty tree-lined streets.

A fine snow began to fall again, as if on cue. The young boy looked out the long side window from the rear of the station wagon. The glass was semi-fogged with breath, but he traced an ever-widening circle, exposing the passing streetlights, each now with its own private halo of multicolored snow.

They stopped by the supermarket, which was closed. However, just as they had done every year he could remember, they located the perfect tree from the guy in the parking lot, under the “Xmas Trees 4 Sale” sign.

This year’s model was a medium sized Scotch Pine with strong branches and classic shape. 3 bucks. His family was always the poor man’s last customers.

“Merry Christmas!” they waved as they drove off with their prized tied to the roof of the car and headed for home at last.

Dad bounced the tree on the front sidewalk before bringing it indoors. The sharp smell of pine surrounded them as they carried it in and set it upright. The tree stand and boxes of ornaments and lights had been brought down from the attic.

The stringing of the lights, a few plugs of tinfoil to make the old ropes of color light up for one more year. The tinsel, which shredded all over the living room rug, created a sea of sparkle. Bright and shining delicate ornaments, at least one of which would fall and shatter to make the night complete.

This year a new ornament was brought out (a decision which all but Mom would come to regret): An electric gold nativity ball, which played an endless loop of carols. It became a running joke, but for now just added to the warm spirit of the holiday ritual.

4

Food! Tunafish sandwiches on toast, crackers and celery with dip, eggnog with Christmas cookies.

Somehow, the dog got loose from the pantry and ran through the house, nearly toppling the tree. He ended up with tinsel all over his head before he was corralled by a laughing posse of siblings.

Once the food was eaten and the tree was topped with the shining hollow angel, it was time to split off to separate rooms to wrap those last minute gifts.

He had found a perfect gift for his mother: A tiny porcelain cup trimmed in real gold with purple enamel inset. Purple was her favorite color, so he knew she would love it. He had managed to get it home without breaking it, and now he carefully swathed it in tissue paper and wrapped it in shining red foil.

He had also found a neat Deluxe Magic Kit for his little brother. It had the disappearing egg trick and even a wand. He had wrapped this beforehand and hid it in the back of the closet shelf where his brother couldn’t see or reach.

The wrapping done, he decided to go downstairs and listen in on his parents’ progress. The bedroom door was shut tight, but he could hear the bustle of activity from inside. He perched near the door.

“I couldn’t find the Hot Wheels set he wanted, they were all out of them at all 4 stores.” He heard his mother say. His heart sank. “But I did find a great oil painting kit. It’s got a small easel and everything.” His spirits rose again.

“That’ fine, he’ll love it,” his father responded. “Have you seen that box from the post office?” he asked.

“I coulda sworn I put it… Dammit!” He had stubbed his toe and let out a hissing string of obscenities.

“Please stop swearing. It’s Christmas.” his mother admonished.

“It was on top of the bookcase yesterday! Have you been moving my things again?” The boy chuckled to himself at his parents’ ongoing routine, then stole away silently from the door and moved toward the kitchen. Just one more cookie.

It Takes A Thief.

He sat at the kitchen table munching the tree-shaped sugar cookie with green sprinkles, dipping it occasionally in his eggnog, turning the liquid chartreuse. He could still hear the distant murmur of his parents talking while wrapping, with the background of the chirping Christmas carol ornament.

When he was done, he chugged down the rich green liquid and savored the sugar crystals at the bottom of the glass. He sat on the stool under the dim kitchen light.

Soon the presents would all be wrapped. Then, his brothers and sister would bring their packages down and arrange them in piles by name. The piles would cover the entire the entire bedskirt of the twinkling tree.

After that, as a distraction so that his mother could bring out the larger packages and Santa presents, his father would gather them in the stairwell and read them the classic bible story of Mary and Joseph and the coming of the Christ child in the town of Bethlehem.

He imagined the picture: The single, bright star, the valley and distant hills on a quiet, silvery, peaceful night so many years ago in a peaceful, faraway land.

The stream of visitors gathered to witness the celebration of a family and their joy at the birth of their child in such humble surroundings as a manger in a remote little area on the outskirts of town.

That night was not so different from tonight, he thought.

5